Seducing the Master (An Erotic Historical in the Red Chrysanthemum Series) (28 page)

The possible truth of her words quelled his reply.
Frustrated that he could not refute her, he began tearing the shirt
instead.

In his earlier haste, he had not secured the ropes
as tightly as he was his custom, and she managed to yank her
remaining hand free. She grasped his forearms and dug her
fingernails into him. Surprised, he released the garment. She tried
to scramble from him, but he caught her and kept her pinned beneath
him.

“
Master Gallant, you may do
anything you wish to me,” she huffed and panted, “but I will keep
my shirt, if you please.”

His instincts were to oblige, but he was still too
enraged. She had granted him no consideration yet wanted it for
herself? He would not allow such hypocrisy. He would not allow her
to prevail, not when she had challenged his manhood and
disrespected his position as a dominant. The hellcat offered no
respect. She deserved none in return.

“
It does not please me,” he said,
grabbing the shirt and yanking it down her shoulder.

“
No!”

She cuffed him on the side of the head. Hard.
Turning, she attempted to crawl from under him. He recovered in
time and seized the collar of the shirt. The fabric ripped between
them.

His blood, boiling throughout him from head to toe,
turned cold.

He stared at her back, crossed with thick scars
where a flogger had torn the flesh. The flogger must have cut deep
and often to mangle the skin in such fashion. In contrast to the
rest of her smooth and supple body, her back appeared as a rocky
terrain, the grooves and ridges forming scars that would last her
lifetime.

Stunned and horrified, he stumbled from her. She
retreated from him, clutching the torn shirt to her.

“
Forgive me,” he gasped. He could
not tell if the tears brimming upon her lashes were old or new.
“Who—How…?”

She would not look at him. When
she spoke, her voice sounded small, a far cry from her customary
bravado. “I would that you take your leave, Master
Gallant.”

He did not move. The sight of her mangled back had
not left him. The scars were old, thus they could not have been
made in her time at the Red Chrysanthemum. Then where and by
whom?

“
Now.
”

In sharp contrast to her earlier desires, her
current aversion to his presence struck him with the force of a
carriage and four at full speed. She looked ready to cry, and for
that reason he hesitated to go. But still she refused to look at
him. She stared intently but, as if blind, seemed to see
nothing.

At a loss, he decided to oblige her and made his way
to the door without word. She had not stirred from where she sat
upon the bed, appearing as vulnerable as Miss Katherine had her
first night. He swallowed with difficulty, wanting to speak to her,
but not knowing what to say.

“
Miss Terrell,” he finally said,
hoping the words would come to him.

She turned her head away from him, making clear her
disinclination to hear him.

He looked down at the floor, his prior rage hung in
abeyance, replaced with sentiments less preferable than anger. He
opened the door and took his leave, closing the door gently behind
him.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

T
errell heard the door
close. Angrily, she brushed the tears that threatened to pour from
her eyes. The look of horror upon his face had made her want to
retch. She wanted him, of all people, not to see her disfigurement.
Her beauty had failed to persuade him, and now surely he could only
look upon her with great revulsion. She choked back a sob.

Scrambling out of the bed, she
made her way up the stairs to her room and exchanged the torn shirt
for her shift. The wounds were years old, but tonight the scars
stung as the linen covered them. She dressed in her short stays
that laced in front, petticoats, stockings, and her muslin gown.
She wanted to bury the scars beneath as many layers of clothing as
possible.

She wiped the last of the moisture
from her eyes. She refused to cry. In truth, she had brought this
misery upon herself. Her arrogance, her impudence, had led her to
actions that had lost her Master Gallant. She supposed it a fitting
consequence. While she had genuinely believed that enacting the
role of a Mistress would titillate him, she ought to have heeded
her reservations. But she had pushed onward because of what
she
had desired, because
of what she wished to prove. If she had not been so indulgent, so
rash, she would not have vexed him. How he must hate her
now!

His threat of seeing her expelled
from the Red Chrysanthemum echoed in her ears. She had flouted
protocol, committed an awful deed. If Madame should banish her, she
had no one to blame but herself. But if Madame should spare her,
she could not remain while Master Gallant despised her. She would
dread crossing paths with him. Regardless of what fate awaited her,
she had to ask his forgiveness.

She slid on her slippers and
rushed down the stairs. She went straightaway to Baxter.

“
Master Gallant,” she said, “has
he left?”

“
His horse was ready but a few
minutes ago.”

Then he could not have gone far,
but she could not waste time by fetching her shawl from her room.
She dashed into the coolness of night. Turning right would take her
toward the river. She knew not where Gallant resided, but all the
superior addresses lay to the left. She hurried down the dimly lit
street. She had the luck of a full moon in a sky with few clouds to
veil its brightness.

A man on horseback had just turned off the street
and into an alley. She scurried after him. The alley was dark and
narrow, but it was too short to invite the more dangerous elements
of the night.

“
Master Gallant!” she
called.

The horse stopped. For a moment, when the rider did
not turn the animal around, she thought perhaps it was not him. All
she saw was the faint silhouette of his head and cloak. He
dismounted and turned to face her, but she could not quite make out
his physiognomy.

“
Miss Terrell.”

She emitted a breath of relief. It was Gallant. His
tone was not welcoming, but she ought not be surprised by it. He
had never appeared particularly pleased to see her, and if she had
not allowed her desires to overwhelm her, she might have taken note
of this fact.

A stiff silence existed between them.

“
Forgive me,” she said plainly.
“You were right. I presumed too much. I assumed that, because you
had been with Mistress Scarlet, you were partial to submitting from
time to time.”

The words did not come easily, for
she had not considered what she was to say. His silence did not aid
her. When the horse neighed and restlessly pawed the ground, he
turned from her to quiet the steed. She bit her bottom lip at his
lack of response. Perhaps he thought she attempted to justify her
actions.

“
I ought not have made such an
assumption. Or I ought not have acted as I did upon my
suppositions. And I should not have—I wanted to, selfishly, prove
that you could desire me, that you could desire a blackamoor, that
I could be as desirable to a man such as yourself as…I wanted to
prove you wrong, perhaps even suffer for your words. It was wrong
of me, and it was...deplorable.”

She paused to provide him a chance to respond.
Still, he said nothing. The silence was agony.

“
Perhaps you think I speak only to
stay you from reporting my behavior to Madame Devereux,” she said,
not caring if desperation reverberated in her voice, “but I would
gladly leave the Red Chrysanthemum if I knew I had your
forgiveness.”

The horse had calmed, but Gallant did not turn back
to face her. She wondered what more she could say? That she would
let him suspend her from the rafters for hours? Or suffer any
punishment he desired to mete out? Should she promise never to
trouble him again? Why did he not look at her?

“
Please,” she said, attempting a
step toward him. “Forgive me, Master G—”

He turned, but with such swiftness that her breath
left her. He caught her by the waist, and before she could complete
a cry of surprise, he had her pressed against the wall with his
body. His mouth descended upon hers.

Her heart leaped into her throat. Surprised, she did
move but submitted herself to his kiss, thrilling to the pressure
of his lips upon hers, how forcefully they claimed her. His hand
cupped her beneath her jaw, compelling her to offer her mouth up
for him to feast upon. And he devoured her with a vigor that took
her breath away.

Surrounded by him, her body thrilled at the heat
rushing through her. She would have responded to his kiss if his
mouth did not overpower hers. Over and over, he took her lips and
swept his tongue into the depths between. She tried to keep apace
but found it easier to simply submit herself. Her hips yearned
toward him. The coolness of the night had melted away. He had set
her body aflame and only he could extinguish the fire by matching
his heat to hers.

He released his hand from her, but she kept her head
where it was as he seared kisses down her neck and about her
collar. She could not have imagined such bliss! She moaned when he
drew the side of her neck into his mouth and arched herself to
provide him unfettered access. She wanted to throw herself at him
but feared her aggression would startle him.

As if sensing her need, he pressed
his body to her. He propped his left hand above her and circled her
waist with his right arm, bringing her hips to his. He returned to
kissing her mouth. This time he engaged her participation but
guided the pace and motions so that she followed effortlessly. He
kissed with palpable fervor but with an
elegance
that left her in awe. He
was as skilled at the act of kissing as he was with the ropes, and
she relished every moment. If not for the desperate yearning
between her legs, she would have been content to lock lips for
hours on end.

She gasped when his right hand cupped a tender
buttock. The effects of the paddle had not dissipated. As if
knowing why she gasped, he slid his hand from her arse to the back
of her thigh, lifting her leg to his hip. His cloak shielded them
in part, trapping the heat of their bodies. She ground herself at
him, wanting him, needing him. Wrapping her arms about his neck,
she tried to pull him closer to her. She wanted to be smothered by
his body. He resisted and instead brought his left hand down
between them. He reached beneath her skirts and found her hot and
wet.

She exhaled a moan into his mouth, which still
covered her own. He softly caressed the plump, wet lower lips
between her thighs. His strokes sent magnificent currents
throughout her body. How she had longed for him to touch her there!
When his thumb grazed her clitoris, she shivered with such thrill
that she would have thought she had never been caressed there
before. His touch was divine. There was much she longed to do, but
she dared not disrupt his beautiful ministrations.

He captured her sighs with his mouth even while he
stroked the fire between her legs without a single misstep. Once
more she marveled at his abilities. It was as if he were a musician
playing two instruments simultaneously. The effect nearly
overwhelmed her. His breath upon hers, the taste of him on her lips
and inside her mouth, his hand holding her leg, his warmth
enfolding her, the hard wall against her back—there was no escaping
even if she wanted to escape.

When he slid a finger into the center of her liquid
heat, she nearly whimpered. Her hands dropped to the lapels of his
coat, and she dug her fingers into them as a second finger entered
her. He stroked the area behind her mound, and she would not have
required long to spend, but she resisted as best she could.

“
P-Please,” she panted, “let me
spend upon your cock.”

He murmured against her lips,
“Request denied.”

She took that as permission to spend and let the
gates to ecstasy fall. With a cry, she surrendered herself to the
delightful convulsions racking her body. Wetness gushed from her,
coating his hand and her legs as she trembled and thrashed between
him and the wall. She might have fallen to the ground if he had not
held her up. Pleasure radiated from her loins. Her cunnie clenched
and unclenched the fingers still inside of her.

When at last she returned from where he had
catapulted her, she opened her eyes and stared intensely at him.
After collecting enough of her breath, she managed three little
words.

“
Now fuck me.”

“
Damn your filthy tongue,” he
groaned.

“
Fuck me,” she urged, her tone a
plea.

He pressed his brow to hers, his breath shallow but
not from exertion. “I cannot. I ought not.”

“
Have I not already compromised
you? Is your seed not already spilt inside of me?”

With a relenting growl, he set
down her one leg to attend his fall. In seconds, his cock was
freed. She did not require a good look to know it stood hard and
stiff. He hoisted her up by the legs, and she gathered her skirts
higher. When he thrust into her, the triumph exceeded all prior
glory. For now he speared her of his own free will, because he
wanted to. He desired her despite her ugliness. Were she not still
in the throes of arousal, she might have cried.